Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  Temny’s thin-lipped smile seems almost pleased. His hooded eyes focus upon what I’m holding.

  “Sooo,” he hisses. “Finally! You’ve brought me just what I seek. Dobre! I knew you would do so, fool. All I had to do was apply the right pressure, no?”

  His words send a chill down my back. His plan? He expected me to retrieve the pouch for him? Instead of a hero, have I been the world’s biggest fool?

  Temny holds out his mailed left palm. “And now I shall recover what was taken from me. Give the pouch to me. Now!” He slowly curls his iron fingers in a beckoning gesture.

  His voice had seemed hypnotic before. However, I now realize he was barely trying then. It’s as if that steely hand of his has grasped me by the throat, cutting off my breath and pulling me forward at the same time.

  And as my traitorous feet twitch and begin to move, I suddenly see it all clearly. Too clearly. Rather than the wise one of our family, I’m the opposite. I have been so proud of being undeceived that I’ve fooled myself. I’ve fallen into Temny’s trap. He and his wife have experienced setbacks, but not to his larger plan. Unable to enter the cave beneath our castle because the one power he fears is there, he has used me to do it.

  If he holds the pouch he can regain all that was stripped from him by Pavol, become the great Dark Lord once again.

  I’ve failed to understand my parents, underestimated everyone else around me. I’ve imagined myself to be the hero of a story in which I am actually the dupe. Not a knight, but a pawn who has failed his teachers, his family, his great ancestor Pavol, himself. By the head of the dragon!

  Temny’s stare locks my eyes to his, which are now as red as twin pools of blood.

  No one else around me moves. My brother with his raised blade, Teraz and Zatchni in their postures of defiance, Black Yanosh, who fell to the floor after the dark cloud released him, but bounced back to his feet, twin blades at the ready—all of them are frozen in place. They’ve been paralyzed by the false baron’s forceful spell. Even the hosts of Temny’s mercenaries seem unable to twitch. It’s unnaturally quiet. I can’t even hear anyone breathing.

  All I hear are my own feet shuffling slowly across the floor, closer and closer to Temny, whose hand is held out in an imperious gesture, whose fingers are about to grasp Pavol’s pouch.

  “Pod!” the baron demands. His voice is as certain and harsh as blood and steel. “Come.”

  I feel as if I am leaning over the edge of a precipice. I’m struggling against not only gravity, but also a great weight around my neck. It would be easy to overbalance and fall. But I do not.

  Powerful as his pull may be, I cannot allow him to drag me forward as much as a hair’s breadth. If I do, I’ll be lost. I grit my teeth, shift my weight onto my back leg.

  Yes, I have been foolish, but not selfish. Temny’s evil is strong, but it stands alone, even though he has allies who obey and fear him. He does not have what I have. My brother, who stands by me; my parents, whose love is always with us; my teachers, my new friends, my loyal dogs, and this very place itself, this castle that is rooted in the blood of my family like a tree in deep fertile soil. And Pavol himself.

  “Pod,” Temny commands again. This time his voice sounds strained.

  Then, from that place within me, another word comes.

  Nie! No!

  I take a breath and feel my lips move, no longer paralyzed by the spell.

  “Zosilni,” I whisper to the eagle feather. “Strengthen.”

  The feather grows heavier. It increases in size, becomes more solid and substantial in my hand. I feel a wave of power flow from it into me.

  Sweat is appearing on the baron’s brow. Even the blood red of his eyes is not as bright. He shakes his head infinitesimally.

  Temny relaxes his hand. His spell dissipates around us. Life and motion return to the hall and I hear the intakes of breath, the creak of leather, the soft clank of weapons brushing against armor. Temny’s men are moving to attack from behind.

  I turn quickly, sweeping the feathery wand like a sword delivering a crossing blow.

  “Rychly vietor! Quick wind!”

  The swift wave of wind strikes Temny’s men with such force that it hurls them staggering back, losing their footing and their weapons as they go rolling out through the back doorways.

  My two faithful dogs and my other four companions were untouched by the gale from my feathery sword. Recovered from their spellbound paralysis, my brother, our two warrior maidens, and Black Yanosh stand with me. They’re all looking at me.

  For some reason, they seem to be waiting for me to take the lead.

  What we do now?

  Ucta and Odvaha too.

  What we do now, indeed.

  I’m not that sure their trust in me is well-founded. That last gust of wind did not affect either Temny or his two bodyguards, who remain above us on the raised platform. Having regained her feet, Poteshenie is again standing beside her hateful husband. Her lips are moving in a silent spell to call up something else. Heaven knows what.

  Further, that was my third request of the powerful object from Pavol’s pouch. Magic often runs in threes and then runs out. It seems this feather is no exception. It is shrinking in my hand. Rather than a large feathery wand, it is now something I can hold between my thumb and forefinger. It’s no bigger or more threatening than the limp tail feather of a halfgrown chicken.

  Think, Rashko! What else was in Pavol’s pouch?

  I place the depleted feather in the pocket of my tunic and slide my hand into the pouch a second time. This time something long and smooth finds my fingertips.

  Black Yanosh lets out a shout and raises both blades. A dark shape has just appeared to stand before him. No, not one black shape. Three more, materializing as if out of the air itself. They are twice the size they were before. Each one is as big as a draft horse. Razor-clawed, sharp-fanged, and hungry for our blood, they’re the remaining incarnations of Laska, Poteshenie’s little pet.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Goose Bone Sword

  THE FOUR MONSTER cats spread out around us slowly. They don’t seem at all wary of us—even after losing three of their number against just Odvaha, Ucta, and myself. I’m a bit surprised by that. After all, Paulek and Black Yanosh and the two skilled sisters have been added to our side. Perhaps their increased size has made them more sure of themselves.

  Then again, their mistress is here, as is the baron—as are his soldiers, who have begun to regather themselves after that wind sent them tumbling. Peklo has left the podium to rally one group of them at the far left of the hall. To the right Smotana is doing the same. No sign of Truba, their herald. Probably hiding safely behind something.

  One of the giant cats crouches in front of me. There’s a lazy, self-satisfied look in its eyes. Its front paws move up and down as it flexes out its scimitar claws. Its black tail flicks back and forth.

  We are ready, Ucta tells me.

  Very ready, Odvaha adds.

  Neither of them seems worried. I wish I could say the same for myself.

  Paulek elbows me in the ribs. “I have the one to the left, Rashko.”

  “Get ready, Teraz,” I say.

  “Nie Teraz!” she answers. “Appollina!”

  She’s not taking her eyes off the second of the crouching monster beasts that is staring at her. If it thinks it has singled out a weak adversary, it’s in for a surprise. She’s holding up not one but two double-edged daggers. I’m not sure where that additional blade appeared from. Perhaps it was concealed in her boot.

  “Appollina,” she repeats, more forcefully this time.

  “Appollina?” Is she calling the beast by that name? “What do you mean?”

  “Moje meno je Appollina,” she says in the sort of voice one uses with the slow-witted. “My name is Appollina.”

  Lovely name! Enchanting, in fact. Appollina. Much better than Teraz. Should I introduce myself now? Hello, I’m Rashko? No, she already knows my name. After a
ll, it is our castle and Paulek just said my name and . . .

  Stop! I’m smiling and mentally babbling like an idiot. There’s no time for that now. I need to act.

  I pull out the object that just slid into my palm in Pavol’s pouch. It’s the white polished wingbone of a goose. Words come to my lips.

  “Velke dyka!”

  The goose bone throbs as if it has a heartbeat. Then it lengthens, grows heavier, shines. A goose bone no longer, it’s now a long, silver-bladed sword with a bone handle. I lift it, make a double crossing cut in the air. Perfect!

  “Napred!” I shout. “Forward!”

  Odvaha and Paulek leap at the one farthest to our left. Teraz, I mean Appollina, and Zatchni take the one next to it. Black Yanosh and Ucta attack the monster farthest to our right.

  I’m alone as I take on the one directly in front. But when one has a long, sharp, swift magical sword, that is a bit of an advantage—even attacking a creature the size of a small house. When a monster is that large, its heart is an equally sizable target. My sword thrust drives deep into the middle of its chest. The giant cat melts away into gray mist.

  I turn just in time to watch the conclusions of the other three contests. Ucta has the second great cat by its flank. Black Yanosh’s twin blades cross in midair to slash out its throat. A second cloud of mist takes the creature’s place. Odvaha’s leap has carried him onto the third creature’s back. His teeth dig into the back of its neck as Paulek drives his blade so hard into the black horror’s side that he breaks the worn blade off. Gray mist again.

  Thonk! Thonk! Appollina’s dagger sinks into the fourth black cat’s right eye as her sister’s knife, hurled with equally deadly accuracy, dives just as deeply into its left, piercing its brain. And yet more mist.

  Those four gray clouds coalesce, then dart like a frightened bat back to the podium, where the visibly aged Poteshenie opens her mouth and sucks that mist down her throat.

  Appollina’s sister turns to my brother and directs a wide smile in his direction.

  “My name,” she says, “is Valentina.” Her voice, though less lovely than her sister’s, is quite pleasant. She then does a little curtsey.

  Appollina rolls her eyes toward the ceiling as if to say this is no time for courtly gestures. I wonder if her relationship with her sister is like mine with my brother.

  Paulek sketches a bow in Valentina’s direction. “I am most pleased to meet you, Valentina, even under these difficult circumstances.”

  My brother turns to me, holding up his broken sword. “Rashko, it appears I need a new weapon. Do you have one for me in that magic pouch of yours?”

  “Use this one,” a commanding voice intones from behind us.

  Paulek turns as Baron Temny steps down from the podium. He’s holding a sword in his left hand. Its hilt is bejeweled. Its blade glows with strange markings, runes that spell out some message I cannot read.

  Before I can react, Temny tosses his weapon toward my brother.

  “Nie!” I shout.

  But Paulek does not seem able to hear me. His right hand thrusts out to catch the glowing sword that spins in midair and settles its hilt firmly in my brother’s grasp. The glow flows like water from the hilt into his hand.

  Paulek turns slowly to face me. There’s a look I’ve never seen on his face before. His eyes are as red as blood. Behind him, Temny’s lids are closed, his right hand held out as if grasping an invisible blade.

  “Now,” Temny says. “Kill your brother.”

  Black Yanosh leaps between Paulek and me as my brother turns the enchanted sword toward me. I know what our old weapons master has in mind. I’ve seen him do it a dozen times. Block up with the left blade to lift the opposing sword as his other blade slides across to twist the weapon from his adversary’s grasp. It’s an effective tactic to harmlessly disarm an opponent.

  Paulek’s never been able to counter that move before. Until now. Paulek spins, steps sideways, and strikes down at the first blade. The baron’s glowingruned blade sends a pulse of power down the length of the old man’s sword. Black Yanosh’s left hand convulses and lets go of the sword. Our old teacher is stunned by that surge of magic, frozen in place, open for a killing blow. Paulek simply shoves him out of the way.

  Paulek takes a step toward me, the glowing blade held low. It’s a position he’s never used in any of our countless sparring sessions. Behind him, eyes still closed, Temny is in a similar stance. Red, unblinking eyes glare at me from Paulek’s face. It’s my brother’s body, but not my brother about to attack.

  Temny must have done this sort of thing before. Smotana and Peklo have come to stand, weapons drawn, on either side of the baron. Guarding him from attack.

  There’s something else in Pavol’s pouch that might help me. I felt it when I first reached in. But I can’t reach in now.

  The blade held by my brother’s unconscious hand stabs toward me swift as the strike of an adder . . . and just as silent. No shout of Utok! or Stavka! or Udriet!

  My reflexes can move faster than my thoughts. I avoid that deadly thrust at my heart with a quick leap back. There’s an opening for me to counter, but a slash of my weapon would cleave through arteries and tendons and would cripple him for life. He might even bleed to death. I can’t do that, not to my brother.

  “Paulek,” I shout. “Prestan! Stop.”

  No response. Temny’s unblinking, crimson eyes still stare at me from my brother’s strangely calm face. Paulek himself is no more aware than a wooden marionette whose arms and legs are being manipulated by a puppeteer.

  Led by Temny’s blood red eyes, Paulek’s body attacks with a quick pair of cuts. The first is aimed to remove my head, the second to take my legs off at the knees. The rune-edged blade itself sings as it slices the air. Yet I duck under the first strike and leap over the second.

  Again, I see an opening. There’s one after each attack. It’s almost on purpose. Does the baron have less control over my brother than he thinks? Is part of Paulek fighting back by leaving himself just vulnerable to counterblows? Sacrificing his body to save me is just the sort of thing my brother would do. But I am not ready to badly injure my brother to save my own life.

  “Hyb sa!” Black Yanosh shouts. “Move!”

  I dive and roll to my left, barely escaping a whirlwind of strikes, one after another, that my brother’s strong body is delivering. I’m thinking too much now. If not for my old teacher’s warning, one of those blows might have connected.

  I come up in a corner, my back against the wall. Paulek’s last blow intersected with the edge of the dais. The rune sword sheared through the heavy oak planking as easily as a knife cuts through fat. I shudder at the thought of being caught by even a glancing blow from that deadly blade.

  My brother turns, raises the sword above his head in both hands. Behind him on the podium, Temny has taken that same stance. Oh no! I can see what is coming. It is a rush straight at me. Here in the corner I can’t leap to the side. He’ll be open for a lethal strike from my sword, but that awful rune blade will come down from above onto me at the same time. There’s a satisfied smile on Temny’s face. His intent is to kill us both with this move.

  Somewhere, behind those reddened eyes, is my brother. Both he and I are descendants of Pavol. Is it possible that we both have Pavol the Good within us?

  I lower my bone-handled sword so that its tip touches the floor of our hall, the hall that is part of Hladka Hvorka, part of all that Pavol made.

  “Bratcek,” I say in a soft voice meant for Paulek’s ears alone. “Brother.”

  A ripple of light dances across the floor from my sword toward his feet. And as soon as it touches him, his eyes close. When he opens them again, the blood color is gone. He shakes his head, then his whole body the way a dog does when it comes out of the water. He lowers the sword that was held high overhead.

  A look of deep regret comes over his face. I was right. Part of him remained aware of how he was being used.

  It�
�s all right, I mouth to him.

  Thank you, brother, he replies just as silently.

  He holds up the rune sword and looks at it in distaste. “Too fancy. Not my sort of blade.”

  I know what he is about to do.

  “Nie!”

  Too late. Paulek turns and hurls the enchanted blade point first, back at Baron Temny. If Temny was a target dummy or another man, it would have pierced him to the heart. But he’s neither. Temny opens his eyes and extends his mailed right hand. The glowing weapon slows in midair, turns, and settles its hilt into his palm.

  “If one wants something done right,” Temny says in a disappointed voice, “it seems that one must always do it himself.”

  He leaps, twice as far as a normal man unaided by sorcery might jump. His red eyes are as predatory as a leopard attempting to ambush an unsuspecting deer.

  Not being a deer, however, I do not wait for him to fall on me. I hop back and the downward stroke of his sword misses me by a foot.

  Temny immediately attempts another move. It’s one I’ve seen before—the same first blow that Paulek never completed—a low rising slash that turns in midair into a thrust toward my throat. I parry it to the left.

  Ka-ching!

  Sparks fly as his sword clashes against mine.

  But there’s no paralyzing surge of power from his blade to my hand. The silver sword in my hand quivers as it absorbs the force of Temny’s magic.

  I riposte with a quick return thrust toward the chest that almost skewers the surprised baron. He is forced to briefly retreat, but then plants his back foot and renews his attack.

  Magic or not, he’s a more than capable swordsman, perhaps almost as good as Black Yanosh. But I have an advantage. I’ve already fought a trial match with him when his eyes looked out of my brother’s face. I know his style of attack. His arms are strong, his reach a bit more than mine, but I keep his blade from connecting—first to my thigh, then my shoulder. Down toward my forearm, then a quick thrust to my eyes.